Running on Empty
by Monoshiri
Summary: The Transformers have been turned human, and the Decepticons are in disarray because of it. Striking out on their own, the Stunticons are forced to change and mature in a world they are not part of...and worse, they have to deal with L.A. traffic. Adapt
1. Chapter 1: Truck Stop

_A/N: This fic is based on Kidu's story "Adapt", which is in turn based on Wayward's "The Human Condition", both of whichyoushould really read because they are so damn good. (Wayward's is easy to find, just check my favourite authors; Kidu's is a little trickier, but if I find a link I'll connect it through my profile.) The basic backstory is that the Transformers have been turned human en masse (this fic branches mostly from "Adapt", whereby their humanity is a by-product of one of Megatron's plots and the Decepticon fanction splits up because of it), and are now having to deal with life from the squishy side of things. Wayward's centred on the Decepticons, and Kidu's altered the context and universe and branched outto includesome of the Autobots; "Running" is much more narrow in scope, focussed entirely on the Stunticons, who were touched on in "Adapt" as having gone to L.A. to work as, of course, stunt drivers. That little mention was enough to spawn a plotbunny which grew to Godzillian proportions...and from it we have "Running", not as good as its precursors, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless. Constructive criticism is my oxygen._

**Chapter 1: Truck Stop**

Nobody at the truck stop paid them any mind when they walked in, sweat-soaked and dusty, and for that Breakdown was thankful, at least. Anyway, even after nearly six hours of walking through blazing desert heat in a new, fragile, and above all unfed organic body, Motormaster still swaggered in like he owned the place and everyone in it, and apparently this was good enough for the dozen or so humans inside, who turned back to their coffees or sandwiches with studied attentiveness.

"So far so good," Breakdown muttered to Motormaster, his words covered by the screeching of chairs on linoleum as Wildrider and Drag Strip made a production of taking their seats and glaring around at the backs of various heads. "Apparently your brand of attitude is common in this culture," the ex-Decepticon couldn't help adding nastily, "so we should be able to blend in alright."

"Blending in is the only reason why I didn't just reach out and break your arm for that little remark," Motormaster hissed across the table at the smaller man. "I think I'll save that for later."

Breakdown shivered and pulled away from his leader, certain that he meant it...and then realized why Motormaster was so touchy. For some reason, his own human form, which was dark-pigmented, had endured the heat better than Motormaster, whose face was drenched and even redder than it had been hours before within the base. The bigger Stunticon had noticed his own weakness in comparison to Breakdown's endurance of the sun, and he hated it. Breakdown, now curious and feeling more confident than he could remember being in his whole life--these humans had always been a source of envious fascination and astonishment to him, and now he was one, anonymous, not worth a second glance, glory be!--looked over at Wildrider and noticed that his teammate, slightly lighter than himself, also seemed less susceptable to heat. He couldn't stop himself from staring at his own fingers, held out in front of him, and then at Dead End who sat across the table from him. The former Porsche, for his part, was staring at nothing, the neck of his turtleshirt pulled up over his nose, his almond eyes strangely peaceful behind clear industrial yellow glasses.

"I stink," announced Drag Strip to the universe at large, as if it were interested. "I need to wash."

For a moment the Stunticons froze, and it was horrible for them to realize: alien bodies in an alien culture, with no idea as to the mundanities of life that every human knew...

"Bathroom's right over by me, pal," said the human--female, Breakdown noted with a degree of uncertainty, short hair, chubby, glasses, wearing a big brown sweater and faded blue jeans--who had been sitting at the counter obviously since well before the Stunticons came in. She appeared to be over-energized, and her plate of scrambled eggs and sausages was untouched. Drag Strip got up and started for the rightmost door of the two the female had indicated, only to be stopped by a passing waitress.

"Honey, that's the little girl's room; unless you some kinda trans-whatsit, you want the other one."

Drag Strip snorted and acted as if he hadn't heard her, but went into the room indicated. He was out again in nanoseconds and skidding into the Stunticons' commandeered table. "I can't go in there," he spat, eyes wide with revulsion. "It stinks worse than this stupid body does!"

"Nothing stinks worse than you do, "honey"," Motormaster sneered up at him. "Suck it up."

"You talk to me like that again, I'll smash your fa--"

"I'll go with you," Breakdown said pointedly, because one or two people were starting to stare at them. "I'm sure it's not that bad. You're always so hypochondriacal..."

"Hysterical," Dead End corrected him automatically.

"Oh, so you are alive," Motormaster growled at him. "Got any human money? They'll probably try to kick us out unless we order something, and I don't want a body count this early on, or that slagger Onslaught will make fun of me."

Praying to Primus that Motormaster would remember to keep that blasted voice of his down, Breakdown lead Drag Strip back into the truck stop's washroom, which was, in fact, that bad. Nose crinkled, Drag Strip idly pulled off his thick yellow logo-decked jacket and the white t-shirt underneath, and started washing his arms and shoulders off in the bathroom sink. Apparently he wasn't nearly as interested in his new form as Breakdown was in his, but all the same, in the middle of splashing water on his stomach, he paused and looked over at Breakdown curiously.

"Hey, you squishy-watch sometimes, right?"

"Sometimes," Breakdown admitted cautiously. "Why?"

"Just stuff about these new stupid bodies, really...I mean, what, for instance, is this for?" Drag Strip fiddled with the zipper on his pants for a moment, then produced something of vague interest.

Breakdown inspected the item in question. "Um, I'm not really certain. From what I've seen, it's a dual interface/waste-expulsion port."

"It looks like a pain is what it is," Drag Strip complained bitterly. "Plus, it's not even remotely aerodynamic! Can't I just cut it off?"

"I don't think that would be a good idea...but then again, when has that ever stopped you?"

"Feh, I suppose I can just have that done when we find Scrapper and his team."

"I dunno," Breakdown said, inspecting some of the inscriptions on the bathroom wall. "Apparently the humans attach great importance to those things."

"What, these?"

"Yeah. Humans that have them recieve higher social standing than those without them."

Drag Strip's annoyed expression melted into one of disbelief. "You're kidding me? Social superiority among humans is awarded based on a seven inch hunk of meat inconveniently stuck between your legs?"

"That's the impression I got from watching them, yes," Breakdown said, wondering idly who Killroy was. Drag Strip rolled his eyes, zipped his pants back up with some difficulty, and pulled his t-shirt back on.

"What a stupid culture. As soon as we turn back into our old selves, I say we get Astrotrain to blast this dumb planet to shards; no one would miss it, I'm certain."

Someone with fists the size of a computer monitor was banging on the bathroom door, making "someone" probably Motormaster. "Oi, you two done in there yet? Dead End ordered something called 'coffee' for us."

"That's if we get back to our old selves," Breakdown said with a moment of moroseness as Drag Strip dried his hands off and opened the door.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2: Carjacked?

**Chapter 2: Carjacked?**

Esther left the roadhouse half an hour after the arrival of a group of weird, noisy young men, her head ringing with drink and the memory of a voice like a truck horn. She knew she shouldn't have had those four beers so early in the day--heavy drinking always gave her a headache--but getting sloshed was the only alternative that she could think of to devouring her food, returning to Los Angeles, marching into the World Films main studio, and strangling her blasted director. Louis Stevenson! Esther was certain that, right now, there was no screenwriter on Earth who hated the director of their film, their _baby_, as much as she hated Stevenson. And that was really saying something.

It wasn't that he was a jerk--personally, he was affable enough, but, well, he was a _director_, and one who'd cut his teeth on big, explosive action movies at that. With the producers onside, he'd taken her screenplay, a subtle, intellectual thriller about a man who has to choose between his own overwhelming patriotism and his love for his mentor, and edited it into some sort of Michael Bay-esque monstrosity with car chases and buildings collapsing. And not a day didn't go by where Stevenson wasn't knocking on her door with his cheerful "I-know-you'll-do-this-'cause-I'm-the-director-and-therefore-God" smiles, telling her about this or that new chase scene that he wanted her to write in...with his input, of course.

This morning, however, Esther had finally snapped, specifically on hearing Stevenson's announcement that a certain talentless society girl cum starlet was being tapped for a cameo roll in the movie, and would Esther mind writing her a cute line or two? This particular travesty had caused Esther to exit the building at speed, jump into her battered brown Toyota, and drive out of Los Angeles, following the freeway in the certain knowledge that a nervous breakdown would occur if she stayed with this tinseltown garbage any longer. A tiny part of her mind, about an hour out, reminded her that she loved screenwriting even with the dick directors, and a larger part of her stomach reminded her that she hadn't had anything except coffee all day. Hence the truck stop, and the beers to drown her misery. She supposed she'd better be grateful to the gang of sweaty, sunburnt, raucous idiots who'd wandered in a little while ago: without their noise, and their extremely strange conversation, not to mention the consumption of more caffeine, grease, and calories than one would see outside Harga's House of Ribs, Esther would probably have stayed in that truck stop all day, staring at a stone-cold plate of scrambled eggs, drinking herself into a stupor. What her mother would say if she could see her now...

Esther plunked herself down in the driver's seat of her smelly Toyota, legs dangling over the pavement still, and put her head between her knees, staring at her canvas sneakers. Only then did realization begin to dawn on her that driving back to L.A. was not an option in the state she was in, and there was unlikely to be a cab service all the way out here. Shit. At least she had one consolation out of this miserable, lousy day: a number of the car chases that Stevenson had plotted out called for stunts of a calibre so extreme that every stunt driver in Hollywood had hung up on Stevenson as soon as he'd outlined them, much to his frustration. Esther allowed herself a small, bitter smile: it was good, sometimes, to spread the suffering around a bit.

Suddenly she became aware of a large grey boot-toe invading her vision, which currently included the pavement and her own shoes. She stared at the toe. The toe stared back. Then a truck-horn loud voice some six feet above her head addressed her.

"Hey you, is this your car?"

"Hey you, and yes it is," Esther muttered, before looking up-_way_ up-at her unwanted visitor. He looked vaguely like the gigantic unholy spawn of Hulk Hogan and Billy Idol, domineering in a grey khaki jacket, grey coveralls, dull grey work boots, and a grey trucker's cap that had once upon a time been brown. His face was red and wet with strange violent violet eyes, with features a mixture of brutality and animalistic cunning that leant themselves to instant dislike of their owner. Esther found herself looking surreptiously for the chainsaw or the 12-gauge shotgun bound to be about his person.

"It's an ugly car," announced the redneck nightmare.

"Ugly, but potentially useful," said someone from behind him, and Esther, glancing around Redneck's considerable girth, groaned inwardly. The psychos from the truck stop were _all_ coming out for a little chat. The guy who had spoken looked East Indian--or West African, or maybe a combination of the two--and wore pale khaki pants, black motorcycle boots, and a black-and-white hooded sweatshirt (in this heat?). He was eyeing the car with a calculating expression, but when he caught Esther eyeing him, he hissed and arched up like a cat confronted with an ugly dog. "What are _you_ staring at?"

"Your clothes," Esther said frankly. "You guys aren't from around here, are you? You sure didn't dress for the daytime weather."

"You're wearing the same sort of thing," said Paranoid accusingly.

"I'm always freezing no matter how hot it is. You guys, on the other hand, are sweating like hoofed porcine mammals."

"We have hooves?" said the blond white guy in the yellow logo jacket, looking momentarily bewildered.

The Asian-looking guy the with the yellow work goggles and the turtleneck pulled over his nose cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. "Do shut up," he drawled with a surprisingly English accent, before Logo Jacket hauled off and punched him, _hard_, in the stomach. Esther, drunk as she was, jumped with shock, but the blow didn't seem to faze English Turtleneck, who simply winced, punched Logo Jacket back in the arm, then turned back to Redneck and Paranoid. "So are we going to ask her or not?"

"Why ask?" rumbled Redneck. "We _take_, remember?"

"Not here," advised Paranoid, "we're too vulnerable now. Even if we have split with _him_, we still have to stay secret, and that means obeying their laws as much as is possible."

"But that's no _fun_," whined the last guy, who looked to have a combination of South Asian and native American heritage, had a thick Western accent, wore headphones with _spikes_ sticking out of them, and had a grin that ranged anywhere from "drunk, stoned soccer lout" to "serial killer", in Esther's view. Bleary as she was, their commentary was beginning to unnerve her.

"Look, guys, I don't have any money, I'm not much of a lay, and my ride's a piece of crap, so what do you want?"

The five weirdos were silent for a moment, just looking at her, before Paranoid exchanged a glance with Redneck and spoke up. "We, uh, we need a ride to the nearest big human settlement, but we haven't got a car."

"That's Los Angeles," said Esther, aware that something here was not exactly kosher, "and you guys won't fit in my car."

"We'll manage," said Redneck in a tone of voice that indicated that someone would get hurt if they didn't.

"I can't drive; I'm drunk."

"I can, and I'm not."

If Esther hadn't been four sheets to the wind, she would have argued strenuously with the idea of driving five strange men back into town with her. Then again, if she hadn't been pasted, she would perhaps have missed the brief, dangerous look in Redneck's purple eyes. Either way, she figured later on that it had all balanced out. That karma thing, perhaps. She threw up her arms.

"Okay, okay, if you like. But you're paying for the gas."

"Sure we are," Redneck said nastily. "Alright, you pack of idiots, get in the car _NO Drag Strip not the front seat_, this hu-woman has to navigate for us."

Esther slowly scooted over to the passenger seat as the rest of her doors twitched open and the five men piled in. Redneck somehow managed to cram himself into the driver's side; hunched over with his knees very nearly around his ears, he grunted and adjusted the seat sharply, so hard that one of his cohorts in the back seat, the psycho with the headphones, cried out in pain. To Esther's horror, Redneck just sneered. "Suck it up, slagger."

"Go sit on a drive shaft and rotate," spat Headphones, before apparently obeying Redneck's command and scrambling over the back seat onto Turtleneck's lap. "Slag, this is _weird_, isn't it?"

"Mm," said Turtleneck, looking out the window. Esther noticed with a start that the four in the backseat, while they were pushing, shoving, and occasionally punching one another, seemed very comfortable with their sprawled arrangements when they finally settled. Headphones relaxed across Turtleneck with his feet tucked up on Paranoid's lap, twitching occasionally, and Logo Jacket was resting much of his back against Paranoid's chest and stomach. Esther had never seen a group of men, especially young men, that physically comfortable with each other before, not when there wasn't some family relationship involved, and even then the frantic emanations of "I'm Not Gay" would be present; they weren't here. She wondered why...

As Redneck started up the car and manouvred them back onto the freeway, Esther remembered what had been bothering her. "Uh, what did you guys say your names were?"

Turtleneck, Logo Jacket, and Paranoid froze, while Redneck sharply cut another, large car off, causing the other driver to honk angrily at them. Redneck responded with a complicated series of hits to the Toyota's horn and a curse word that seemed to be entirely clicks. Headphones paid the matter no attention at all.

Surprisingly, Paranoid recovered first. "Uhh-uh, we didn't."

"Only I thought your buddy up here called you with the jacket "Drag Strip"."

"Darryl S. Tripp," Paranoid corrected grimly. Esther got the odd idea that he had been preparing for this. "His name is Darryl S. Tripp. I'm Brian Downey, this is Daigan Endo," (indicating Turtleneck) "this twit here is Will Ryder, and the creep in the driver's seat is Moe Masterson."

"Charmed, I'm sure. I'm Esther Goldberg."

"I don't really care, thanks," growled Masterson. "Slag...these idiots are doing 85 mph maximum, too slow."

"That's well over the speed limit," Esther warned him muzzily.

All five men turned and looked at her as if she'd just said a particularly foul word. Then Ryder, with the "serial killer" variation on his usual grin, abruptly threw himself forwards and reached over Masterson's shoulders, grabbing the steering wheel.

"HEY! What do you think you're doing!"

"Taking over, slowpoke," Ryder sniggered, doing something complicated with his hands. Before Esther realized what was happening, she was screaming as her ancient car went into a 360 controlled directional spin across four lanes of medium-to-heavy traffic, coming to rest in exactly the same direction as it started out with. Esther promptly leaned forward and threw up on her own feet, looking up just in time to see Masterson bite one of Ryder's outstretched arms hard enough to break skin and maybe muscle, causing the smaller man to yelp and withdraw the offending limbs. Masterson, maintaining the old car's new speed of 118 mph, hissed invective at Ryder involving new and creative methods of dismemberment as he wove between cars with frightening ease, manouevreing the Toyota into a tiny gap between two muscle cars in the fast lane, then waiting until the lead driver was distracted and dekeing in front of him.

_He's good,_ thought the tiny, annoying part of Esther's subconscious that was always sober and always alert. _He's **very** good. And I bet he could do some pretty scary shit if he wasn't driving a vehicle that handles like a brick._

Esther looked behind herself carefully to see Brian Downey staring at her in astonishment. "Uh, why did you do that just now?"

"Huna?"

"You know, um, expel your food onto the floor."

"After that little dance you guys did with my damn car? I'm surprised none of you barfed, you ate enough back at the truck stop!"

Downey looked puzzled. "Why would we? It's just gravitational variations is all."

"Oh yes, I'm sure for you gravity is optional," Esther muttered angrily. She felt terrible, but not drunk-terrible, and now she was beginning to realize how odd her situation was.

Tripp, strangely, was poking with interest at the bite-wound on Ryder's arm, while Ryder himself wore a very strange little smile. Masterson had apparently discovered the car radio and switched the station from Esther's usual classical to a country station, and was playing it loud. "Are we going the right way?" The huge man asked her suddenly.

"Yes, um, just keep going west and we should get to the exit in about an hour and a half...what?" Ryder was staring at her intently; he pulled his arm away from Tripp and poked his head into the front seat right next to Esther's, grinning fiendishly.

"Y'got any more of that coffee? Because I really like coffee. It's good."

"A temporary stimulant to distract from the overall futility of life," drawled Endo quietly, "a life made exponentially _shorter_ by mortal flesh I might add."

Ryder stared at Endo for a moment, then picked up Esther's plastic travel mug and moved to hit his compatriot over the head with it: he paused, though, sniffed it, then licked the inside tentatively and shot an accusing look at Esther. "There was coffee in here!"

Esther slowly and carefully took the mug from Ryder and set it down, then stared around the back seat and driver's seat at the pack of nutcases currently inhabiting her car, and responsible for her not hitting concrete or moving metal at nigh on 120 miles an hour. She felt her face begin to set.

"What, exactly, do you guys do for a living?"

"Uh?" Downey fumbled, a bemused expression on his face, so it was Masterson who answered, sharply, "we're stunt drivers. Got a problem with that?"

"No," said Esther weakly, feeling her world collapse around her. Stevenson, she thought, it's your fault. You practically deserve these guys, and I think I'm mean enough and in enough pain that I'll actually give them to you. "Are you gentlemen, uh, employed at the moment?"

"Can't this thing go any faster?" snapped Masterson.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3: Dispersion

_A/N: Be it noted that this chapter contains racist and homophobic epithets. _

**Chapter 3: Dispersion**

By the time they made it back to Esther's apartment building, it was getting dark, Esther had thrown up twice again, and they'd somehow not been arrested, which, considering Masterson's approach to driving-as-contact-sport, was nothing short of miraculous. If Esther had been a Catholic, she would have ripped off a few dozen Hail Marys on stumbling out of her crazily-parked little junker onto the pavement: as it was, she just threw up again.

"You really don't have a very efficient digestive system, do you?" Endo remarked as he clambered out of the car, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the face by Tripp, who somehow harboured the idea that anyone else getting out of the car before he did would bring about Armageddon. The five men somehow managed to untangle themselves and reconvene on the sidewalk, where they either looked around with interest, as was the case with Ryder, Tripp, and Downey, looked at nothing in particular, as with Endo, or looked at Esther with barely-disguised contempt, which was, predictably, Masterson. Four hours in a car with the guy had given her a particular dislike for him; if the other four were insane and apparently violent, at least they had the decency not to treat her like something one would scrape off the bottom of one's shoe, which Masterson seemed to think she warranted.

Endo stopped staring at the pavement and started looking at Esther again, as if expecting a reply. Having just regurgitated most of her stomach, cranky, nervous, suffering the beginnings of a hangover, and no longer very interested in getting back at Stevenson if it meant putting up with these guys much longer, she was just suicidal enough to snap back, "Look, there's three things that make me sick to my stomach: booze, crazy driving, and assholes, and lucky me, I've gotten all three today, thanks a damn bunch."

Through her ill haze, she watched Masterson's sneer turn to a puzzled frown; the big redneck glanced over at Downey and rumbled, "Assholes?"

"Exhaust pipes," Downey said, his own dark face creasing in a frown. "What do you mean, 'crazy driving'?"

That pretty much put Esther over the edge. "Just...just go away, would you? Go...somewhere else. Anywhere else where you're not around me." She growled at the puzzled looks she got. "Downtown starts about a thirty-minute walk from here. There's lots of hostels and motels and that. You can find yourself a place, just..." She waved a vague hand in that direction, feeling like she should throw up again, aware that there was nothing left to throw up. This whole getting drunk thing wasn't worth it, not at all.

Masterson glanced the way she was waving, looked back at her, and sneered again. "I guess we will. Who needs a wimp who can't keep her fuel down, anyway? C'mon," he said to the other four, and they started to walk.

"You're welcome," Esther muttered to their retreating backs. She made her feet take her unsteadily towards the building's foyer, where she discovered that her exchange with the five strange men had had an audience, in the form of Andrew and Jonathan Ng, the superintendent's grade-school-aged grandsons. The two of them were sitting on the floor by the glass doors, apparently engrossed in watching Jonathan beat up God-knew-what on his Gameboy Advanced, but when she leaned against the wall and glowered at them, Andrew looked up and grinned.

"New friends?"

"Like hell," Esther grumbled. "Tell your grandpa I'm sorry about the mess on the sidewalk, but my car looks a lot worse."

"He won't mind," Jonathan dismissed without looking up from his game. "You're his favourite tenant anyway. Those guys gave you trouble, he'd have come out and set them straight."

"That's nice of him," Esther said weakly, realizing that her audience for the Esther's Whacky Day show must be up to three by now, if not more.

"The big guy was ugly," Andrew opined cheerfully. "Really ugly. Face on him like a truck grille."

"Uh-huh." Esther fumbled for the key to her tiny mailbox, realizing that between Stevenson and various other things, she hadn't checked her mail in three days. "Listen, guys, it's been a really long day, and--"

"See, first time you pulled up and those guys got out of the car, me and Jon figured you'd found out you were straight and were trying to make up for lost time," Andrew went on, not bothering to hide his evil glee when Esther turned a beady-eyed glower on him. "But then we saw the big guy and figured, nah, all your girlfriends were pretty cute, no way you'd go for somebody that ugly even if you were desperate."

"Does he have a chainsaw?" Jonathan chimed in.

Esther extracted the clump of bills from her box with a growl and started up the stairs. The boys' laughter followed her up all three flights. She made a mental note to super-glue the next available scientific journal article on homosexuality and genetics to the little creeps' foreheads. Why had every male she'd run across today given her trouble?

Maybe she would call Kaitlin. They were in the "off-again" stage right now, sure, but it would be nice to talk to a sane person before the day was out.

xxxxxxxx

Hostels were easy for Motormaster and company to deal with. Cybertron had a similar system, and they weren't totally ignorant of human social customs. You exchanged money with the consul, you were provided with accomodations, you didn't wreck said accomodations. Or so Motormaster reminded Wildrider with a crushing grip on the smaller man's wrist when he caught him looking at the fake-porcelain table lamp with a gleam in his eye.

No, the trouble for them started when they wandered into the dirty, cramped bar across the street. Or more specifically, when Breakdown bumped a pale-skinned human male's elbow on the way to get a table, and the human male called him a word that started with N and ended with R.

There was some brief consultation among the Stunticons, because human slang was not exaclty their strong point, before Breakdown turned back to the human, puzzled.

"Hey, could you repeat that?"

The human sneered up at him. Even seated, he was big and beefy, and if he stood, presumably he would be almost as tall as Motormaster. "Wassa matter, ya deaf too, fucking ni--"

Breakdown froze as Drag Strip suddenly elbowed Wildrider. "Oh yeah, that word! Rumble and Frenzy and their stupid human TV again, I hear humans call each other that all the time! It means...uh..."

"If you don't know don't talk about it," Wildrider sneered, elbowing back. Dead End pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"This is ridiculous. Let's just find a seat and re-fuel, Motormaster, Breakdow--er, Breakdown?"

The paranoid ex-Stunticon's eyes were darting around the agressive human's table, encountering gaze after gaze, all riveted on _him_, all hostile, all whispering _we know what you are, you are the other, not one of us and we identify and despise you for it..._

"Stop staring at me." The words were barely a whisper, because that was all he could manage. The way they were _looking_ at him, he'd never felt so exposed, to animosity, to cold identification and extraction...not when he was a machine. "Why are you staring at me? I'm--I'm just another human, like you..."

"There's plenty who'd debate that," another one of the humans at the aggressive one's table muttered, to muffled snickers from the others.

Another one of them spat. It landed on the floor by Motormaster's boot. This apparently settled something in the huge ex-Stunticon's mind, because he promptly manhandled Breakdown aside and planted himself in front of the human who had made the initial comment. His voice carried over the hubbub of the bar, a rumble of pure menace.

"You. I don't care who you are, and I don't care what your issues are. But this?" Here Motormaster gave Breakdown's caught arm a hard shake, causing the other Stunticon to yelp and kick him in the shins, to no real effect. "Mine. A weakling, but mine anyways. Meaning you put your optics elsewhere. Got it?"

The human sneered and got to his feet, eye-to-eye with Motormaster; most of his tablemates followed. "Oh, this gets even better. I hate fags even more than I hate n--"

The immediate uppercut that connected with the human's chin was barely a twentieth of what Motormaster was capable of. It was the sort of hit he usually dealt out to the rowdy Cassette twins or an uppity Insecticon, a sort of derisive swat reserved for a lesser opponent. Nonetheless, the 'crunch' of jawbone breaking was audible through the suddenly-quiet bar. The ill-fated man positively floated backwards over his own table, knocking one of his drinking companions over as he went.

Motormaster was still smirking when the man who had idly questioned Breakdown's humanity pulled a gun from his waistband and levelled it at the big ex-Stunticon's temple. Unfortunately, he did it while Breakdown was still standing less than three feet away.

The noise the gun made as it jammed and practically exploded in his hands sent the bar into a state of total uproar. And in the middle of it all, the Stunticons, no longer unsure and lost, for a short, glorious period of about ten minutes, were back in their element, back in the fight.

xxxxxxxx

Esther looked into the bars of the smallest holding cell of the 27th Precinct and winced. "Yes, I know them. They're my, uh, my cousins. They're brothers, you see."

"Is that right?" The young woman standing next to her asked curiously. Her badge identified her not as LAPD but as a member of the Canadian RCMP; the special tag below it indicated some sort of cross-national police friendship program involved in training rookies. Her was close-cropped and dark, and she wore a half-bemused smile and a wedding band that was already showing bruising around the edges, along with her knuckles. "Huh, well, far be it from me to judge. My condolences, though; my people're Irish and I know what it's like to have rowdy relatives. They called on you first, though, so you must be a good cousin to 'em; the big fella just kept asking after you, so we hadda look up your number."

Moe Masterson peered out through the bars of the holding cell, his entire demeanour speaking of bleak threat. Esther sighed and massaged her temples. "I guess he would." _Since I'm the only person they know in this town. Hell's breakfast._ "Uh, what are they charged with?"

"Couple things, mostly related to D&Ds, although they've done breathalyzer and none of 'em showed. But between you and me, my partner spoke to the bartender and apparently the only guy who took real damage off the big fella ain't likely to be pressing charges seeing as how he called the other fella in there a nasty word which I will not relate to you. The general agreement seems to be provocation, so if they're lucky they'll get off with a fine and a slap on the wrist. Apparently it's a first offence."

_And that's Canadians for you._ "How much for bail?"

"Two thousand each, thank you, your family was very prompt in paying it. Tanned gent in a suit came down earlier this evening and identified himself as the Goldberg family's attorney, said to carry through the call, gave us your address even."

"Uh-huh," Esther said, wondering exactly when her librarian father and shopkeeper mother would have hired a slick L.A. lawyer. Obviously never. This got weirder by the minute. Masterson and his crew were all staring at the RCMP lady like they'd been kicked. She smiled cheerfully at them and waved over a couple of large LAPD sergeants to help her let them out.

"Now you be sure to keep these boys out of trouble," the young woman told Esther as the larger of the sergeants walked Masterson through signing the proper papers with a series of humourless grunts.

"Uh-huh," Esther said, feeling like an idiot and wishing she had something else to say. But it was three a.m., she still had a pounding headache, and she was feeling like her life was spiralling further out of control by the second. Endo, the last of the five to do his paperwork, scribbled a signature, and the five of them turned and looked at Esther. She found the looks peculiar. There was no hostility, not even from Masterson, just...confusion. They looked mildly defiant, yeah, but they also looked lost.

She shrugged and pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, her gaze moving to the floor. "Um...there's a cab waiting outside. You can stay the night at my place as long as you don't trash anything. I've got sleeping bags." She startled to shuffle towards the precinct door. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the sounds of heavy boots and sneakers followed after her.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4: Men in the Machines

_Chapter Four: Men in the machines_

Their first night as humans, the Stunticons didn't sleep.

By the time they'd made it back to Esther's apartment, it was around four in the morning. The human had found them some sleeping bags, laid it out on the floor of the living room for them, and groggily retreated into her own bedroom, locking the door. This last action raised her slightly in Breakdown's estimation: at least she wasn't stupid or suicidal, although her obvious sentimentality was a little worrying.

The carpet was thin and the floor was bloody hard. This suited the Stunticons just fine.

What did not sit well with them was their new biology.

After the sixth time Wildrider got up to use the bathroom, Motormaster tripped him coming back and declared a moratorium on waste expulsion for the rest of the night, or so help him he would remove the fuel tank of any mech who violated said edict.

Dead End opened his mouth to point out that they didn't have fuel tanks as such any longer, and was nearly smothered by Breakdown for his troubles.

Besides this, while their new bodies were telling them that a lot of sleep was now a necessity, their Decepticon minds were assuring them that only two or three hours of recharge was needed, and could perhaps be put off until tomorrow in a pinch. Drag Strip was the first to stop pretending towards rest; he snarled and struggled out of his bag, pushing to his feet and stepping carefully over a twitching Wildrider, only to have his ankle caught in Motormaster's gigantic vice grip.

"Did you somehow miss what I just said about the waste expulsion, low-watt?" The ex-truck growled up and over at him.

Drag Strip's lip curled. "'S not that, spinout artist. Aren't you wonderin' just who that fancy guy was who bailed us out of human holding? It wasn't our human's doing; ours is too poor. You have to be loaded with credits to get a human lawyer, I've seen it on TV."

Motormaster's grip tightened momentarily, and then released. "Could've been someone from the base...fine. This human has a computer. Make the contact."

Drag Strip smirked and ambled into the tiny chamber next to the washroom that must have served as Esther's office. No sooner had he stepped inside when Wildrider scrambled out of his bag, eyes bright even in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. "I'm gonna go watch, it beats lying around here like a fragged neutral."

"Make a racket and evenScavenger won't want what's leftof you," Motormaster rumbled ominously, turned over on his side. Wildrider took that in the sense it was meant, jumping over Dead End and scrambling into the tiny office to shove in behind Drag Strip, who was hunched over the keyboard tapping furiously; the motion crushed the former racer's ribs directly into the desk. Drag Strip muffled a yell and punched upwards, hitting Wildrider in the jaw.

"You slag-sucker, you nearly bisected me!"

Wildrider growled in return, grinding his jaw back and forth until it responded to his satisfaction; Drag Strip turned back to the computer, muttering about pathetically primitive technology as he opened the non-pass-protected guest account and accessed the human internet, going through a number of seemingly unrelated websites before finding the one he sought, one heavily encrypted and designed not to draw the attention of human or Autobot users. As he set about authorizing decryption, Breakdown sidled in and hung off the doorway, watching intently as the numbers on the screen melted into rolling code before finally resolving themselves into a face...

Drag Strip made a relieved noise through his nose. "Gotcha! Hey, comm, this is the Stunticons checking in, how--_YOU?"_

The man with the blank face and the thick, colourless beard stared back at him. "Yes, I."

"What the smelt are you doing running the comm lines, Onslaught?" Drag Strip hissed with ill-contained fury. Wildrider, still hanging on to the back of the computer chair, leaned over until his chin was practically touching the top of Drag Strip's head, baring his teeth.

"The rest of the army are engaged in diverse operations."

"Divers' operations?" Wildrider repeated, bemused. "Somebody got rebuilt as a Seacon or what?"

Onslaught made a derisive noise through his nose. "Some days I despair for the survival of the faction. You have contacted us, no doubt, to apologize for your earlier idiocy and enquire as to whom, exactly, freed you from the humans' brig?"

"We aren't gonna apologize to you, On-_slag_," Drag Strip snarled at him. "We were just wondering if Megatron had figured out yet that he lost his more _valuable_ gestalt after that last fight."

Onslaught smiled. It was a new sight to the three watching Stunticons, and not a nice one at that. "Curious that you should ask, as I have a message for you from Megatron. What was it now--ah yes. 'Tell the Stunticons that they may do as they please: I have no more use for them at this time.' That was the gist of it, I believe."

"WHAT? But he--"

"Have fun in Los Angeles, I hear it's quite the place for traffic jams," Onslaught said smoothly, before terminating the connection. The computer screen went dark, plunging the three Stunticons into the darkness preceding the dim light of morning.

Breakdown let go of the doorframe and stood up shakily. "Well...that didn't go very well, did it?"

For once, neither Drag Strip nor Wildrider answered, and thus all three of them were able to hear the heavy tread from just outside the office door as Motormaster stepped away from where he had been listening, unnoticed, to the transmission, and began making his way to the washroom.

"And what happened to 'no more waste disposal on pain of disembowelment', hm?" Dead End asked bitterly from his position on the floor as Motormaster passed him. The bigger man did not answer; he just closed the door.

His failure to kick Dead End in retribution suddenly made the other four very, very nervous. Even Wildrider quit fidgeting and turned his attention to the bathroom door, where a thin splinter of light spread out just under the jamb.

"Hey, what's he doing?"

Breakdown said nothing. "I don't know" could have been cured with a merge, when they were robots, when it was possible to let the pure fury in Motormaster's spark wash over them without allowing it to consume them all. But now they had no idea what he was thinking...

Or rather, they didn't until they all heard the distinctive crash and the sound of splintering glass.

x x x x x x x

Esther was awakened from deep sleep by the same sound.

She pulled on a housecoat and fished the handy golf club out from under her bed before unlocking her door and staggering into the living room.

Three of her five "guests" were crowded into the miserable closet that held her computer and files; Downey, Ryder, and Tripp looked at her with eyes that seemed almost red in the dimness. Endo was still on the floor, curled up in his sleeping bag.

Which left Masterson, and the noise that had come from the bathroom. Damn. She didn't want to deal with Masterson at six a.m. on an hour and a half's sleep.

Nevertheless, she thumped the bathroom door with her golf club. "Oi, was that you in there, Masterson? Everything alright?"

"Fine. Just peachy," came the reply iced with sneering sarcasm.

_Oh joy._ "Hope you've got your pants on and everything, 'cause I'm coming in, okay?"

"Suit yourself." She wasn't sure, but she could have sworn she'd heard him mutter _"meat sack"_ just after that.

Now the other four men were all looking at her, or rather, at the bathroom door. She closed a hand gingerly around the knob, twisted, and pulled.

Masterson was, thankfully, decent, or as decent as a man who was too big for a two-bedroom apartment loo could be in only his grey overalls. But he had apparently wound up and put his bare fist through the washroom window. Smashed glass littered the tile floor like snow; what little that was left in the frame proper was laced with cracks and splintering, giving the reflection of Masterson's face an inhuman look. Esther had to look away from the mirror effect and at the man to remind herself that it wasn't a monster standing there.

Then common sense took over. "Jesus _shit_, Masterson! What the hell'd you do that for? Shit, you must have shredded your hand--take it out carefully, we'll get you to the hospital and..."

"Hospital?" Masterson echoed. She flinched away as he pulled his hand ferociously out of the razor-glass opening he'd made with it, and then glanced at the result against her will.

There was one shard shallowly embedded in between his index and middle knuckle, welling a thin trickle of red liquid. Red scrapes ran here and there, just short of bloodshed. She stared.

"Uh..."

"What?"

"Jesus...you lucked out. Most people who put their bare hand through a window end up slashing the hand all to hell and, uh, and sometimes bleeding to death if it's not treated." Everyone, Esther supplied mentally. Everyone who put their hands through a regular glass window likethe one in her bathroomended up slashing it all to hell.

Masterson looked at his hand, then at the window, flexing his fingers experimentally. His hate-black gaze was distant, and Esther found herself hoping to god that whatever had pissed him off had nothing to do with her. Behind her, she heard the dim sounds of someone, maybe Downey or Ryder, shuffling back into their sleeping bags. She looked at Masterson's hand again, as he turned it over and pulled out the sliver with thick, brutal fingers; no, he didn't need to go to the hospital.

"Um...how about I go get you a bandaid or that or something?" She offered.

He stared at her. "Why the hell would I need one? I'm not an invalid."

"I know. I just don't want you bleeding on my carpet. By the way, I'm going to have to pay out of my own pocket to get that window repaired."

"Poor you."

"Some house guest you are," Esther said coldly. She was tired, she was unnerved by Masterson--was he the Teflon Man or what?--and she turned a beady gaze on Tripp as he attempted to slide silently out of her computer room. "And I don't want to know what you were doing using my computer without asking me first." She turned away from them all and stalked out of the living room, shutting her bedroom door with a sharp click.

As soon as she hit the bed, she regretted her words (irrationally; for pete's sake, one of them had just broken her damn window!) and wondered offhand what had set Masterson off. He didn't seem like the type to attempt self-abuse, which was what putting your hand through glass constituted. He was the sort who would take his rage out on whoever had been the cause of it, and she couldn't think what the bathroom window had done to offend him.

She could kick them out later today, because it was already tomorrow morning. Perhaps. Or she could...

She could sleep. And then get them some breakfast. She'd be damned if she would throw them out without at least giving them breakfast. The souls of her Jewish grandmothers past would haunt her forever otherwise.

First, though, sleep.

x x x x x x x

Breakdown stared at the hulking shape of Motormaster, illuminated against the beginnings of dawn through the apartment's wide window. The Stunticons' leader had said nothing since the incident with the waste disposal room's broken window. Perhaps because there was nothing to be said; mostly because none of the others, not even Dead End or Wildrider, dared ask him a question.

Megatron didn't need them...but Megatron had _always_ needed them.

If he didn't, then what in the Pit, in these helpless little organic pink bodies, were they going to do?

x x x x x x x

TBC...

_Thanks so much to those who took the time to read and review! If I somehow missed replying to you even if you were signed-in, please know that you guys are the reason I keep writing this._


End file.
